


Awesome as an army with banners

by Jainas-in-English (Jainas)



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, GAIMAN Neil - Works
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Communauté : obscur échange, Fanart, Gen, Illustrated, Memories, Multi, Old Gods, allusions to canon-typical sex, ie the midly disturbing kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 20:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12154512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jainas/pseuds/Jainas-in-English
Summary: Who is she who looks forth as the morning,Beautiful as the moon, Clear as the sun,Awesome as an army with banners?[Illustrated: content warning for semi-nudity]





	Awesome as an army with banners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eilisande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilisande/gifts).
  * A translation of [Terrible comme des troupes sous leurs bannières](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129297) by [Jainas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jainas/pseuds/Jainas). 



> This story was first written for the Obscur Echange fanwork swap.  
> It hasn't been beta-read so don't hesitate to let me know if the english needs some fixing!
> 
> The title is of course from the "The Song of Songs" who is thought by some scholars to refers to the Queen of the South... which is one of the many names of the Queen of Sheba.

Mussed in the scarlet linen, quivering still from power and worship, Bilquis closes her eyes.  
The dying light of the candles dances on the spindle of her thighs, on the dark brown of her skin, smooth and firm anew.  
Later she will rise and get rid of the dress left on the chair by her last worshipper; once more she will turn on the phone given to her by the Tech Boy. She knows there is a debt here, an obligation she will one day have to fulfil… But how could she regret, when the screen -such a small thing, this screen, and yet so powerful- is the faint opening to the Queen she once was, the Queen she now remember being after so long? She had forgotten that feeling: that fullness, that certainty in herself… Now she knows what she is, what is her due; and she knows that whatever the Network asks in return she will give, for the possibility of forgetting again is unbearable.  
But all those thought are for later. The now belong to the fulfillment and the evanescent flavour of the veneration so hard to gain in the only temple left to her, to this feeling, even if it is but a pale echo of her past cult.  
Slowly her breath quiets.  
Bilquis sleeps, Bilquis dreams.

The desert is a vibration of heat beyond the gardens and the high columns of the temple. Yet the marbles of Mahram Bilqis are cool under her bare feet. They echo with the whisper of the fountains and the melody strung out on a qanbüs cords, with the gentle bells of her golden jewellery every time she moves. The air is filled the fragrance of incense and myrrh…  
Here reigns the Queen of the South, servants and courtiers kneeling at her feets. Her beauty and her wisdom are praised by her people, the sharpness of her mind is feared by her enemies; her name travels with the caravans and with it the glory of Sheba. Strangers come from far away to Ma’rib to gaze upon its wealth and splendour, to cross the eight pillars of the pericycle, to enter the shadows of the temple and venerate her.  
Not every one of them get to leave. Bilquis is a godess, say some. An enchantress born from the djinns who knows magic beyond the knowledge of men, who sometimes devour her lovers. A woman, just a woman, say others: no more and no less powerful than a woman can ever be. To brush her lips is to stand at the open gates of heaven, to touch her skin is a fulfillment. Many men cross the desert for it; even more write songs.  
In the dream Bilquis knows all of this, knows it is a dream, a honeyed memory from a vanished past. And yet she let her feet lead her along well-known paths to the center of the temple, let her fingers drag across the words of power engraved in the walls. Yet she listen to the clear voice rising and singing for her, accompanied by the qanbüs.  
_Who is she who looks forth as the morning,_  
_Beautiful as the moon, Clear as the sun,_  
_Awesome as an army with banners?_  
“It is me”, she whispers in the dream, her heart heavy like a stone. “It was me.”


End file.
